


Icarus

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Angst, Berlin (City), Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono and Edge unravel together during the recording of Achtung Baby.Set in 1990.





	1. Grey

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn't be posting this, not only because I should NOT BE WRITING (I am so very behind on uni haha but look at me here instead haha) but also because this fic is NOT finished and I had planned on finishing it and posting it all in one go, like look at me, actually having a big fic ready to go without the waiting time. But as I finished this section today, I realized two things:
> 
> This is going to be a lot bigger than I anticipated
> 
> I do not have time for bigger right now, but I want to get it out there
> 
> I actually started this back in 2015, and it was originally a really fucked-up Adam/Bono fic that was totally dubcon to the extreme, but I got kinda scared at the thought of writing that and somehow it turned into a far mildler Bedge fic, though I will always long for that Badam fic in a way. You could have been the worst, Badam fic, you really could have. Anyway, it got abandoned for a long time until today when I realized why it wasn't working, and that was because there was no life to it, so today instead of homework I breathed a lot of life into it and wrote the last huge section and here we are. It's a little bit messed up in places, but nothing compared to what will happen if I ever finish this fic. I wasn't sure how to tag it, quite honestly, I hope I've done it well, if I ever finish it I may have to reconsider the tags. And I'm saying it's not finished but also marking this down as complete, because I don't currently want it hanging over my head like Nexus is, and I think it also works as a standalone, so if I never actually get around to finishing the entire fic idea that I have, at least I won't have left this work-in-progress. But I will likely finish it, I love this idea too much and have thought about it for too many years, but for now, um, enjoy this mini little fic set in, surprise surprise, BERLIN, as I slink back to my homework and cry, ilu all

Slowly his mind turned to static.

Bit by bit it happened, until Edge’s vision slid and the pressure in his head felt close to bursting. Still he carried on, tapping his foot to the beat he was quickly losing and clutching at his guitar until his wrist started to ache. The nerves in his body began to misfire, radiating up and down his arm and then straight on through. For a moment, he felt like he was burning. And then he was drifting. In and out, and far far away. Not too long ago he had been close to a melody. _The_ melody. That singular sound that seemed to forever elude him. It had been just out of reach, for what felt like an age. But he had been almost there. He had almost had it. Now, though, there was nothing but static.

He tried to find his way back. He tried not to think at all, least of all about her, but when a hand landed on his shoulder, briefly Edge figured it could only belong to one person. She was in another country though. She was home, and he was stuck in another world. But he wasn’t alone.

“Edge.” Bono looked too pale beneath the harsh lightening. No, it was worse than that—worse than pale—he looked _wrecked_. “Edge, let’s leave it here for now.”

“I’m almost—”

“No.” Bono shook his head. “No, come on. You can’t stay here forever.” His lip quirked. Earlier Bono had kicked a chair across the room, but now he was smiling. His eyes, however, told a different story entirely.  “Even Superman needs to rest once in a while.”

The world was grey outside of the studio, the sun not quite ready to rise. It was how Berlin often looked when Edge pictured it in his mind. “Are you hungry?” Bono asked. “I’m _starving_.”

Thinking back, Edge couldn’t exactly pinpoint the last time he had eaten, and usually that was never a good sign. It seemed, however, that he couldn’t quite find the energy to care.

Two streets over from the studio was a little cafe that had been the cause of some of the in-band bickering. Bono thought they made fantastic coffee, Larry disagreed, Adam preferred tea, and Edge preferred to be excluded from the narrative completely. It was the only place that was open at such a time though, so Edge allowed Bono to drag him there. The bell chimed when they walked inside, and it wasn’t a sound that Edge wanted to hear most days, but least of all that morning. Not after such a night. Not after the week they’d had. Not when he had barely rid himself of all the noise.

He asked for black coffee, strong, before sitting back and letting Bono order their food. He wasn’t hungry but, like a naughty child at dinner, Edge knew he wouldn’t be leaving the table until he had eaten at least _something_. It was what he’d come to expect from Bono, after all these years. Of course, it was a different story entirely when Bono was the one neglecting himself.

Edge had heard all the excuses. He could fill a book with the things Bono came up with. And sometimes Bono was creative, other times he was as uninspired as the next guy. Most recently he had told Edge, “I’m not a child,” sounding as petulant as Hollie at her worst. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

Most times Edge humoured him. Other times he just walked away. That last time he had done neither, and through the silence Bono had watched him closely. Waiting for a reaction.

Bono was quiet as they waited for their food, and it suited Edge just fine. He drank his coffee, bouncing his knee until Bono started to stare. “Edge.”

“What?”

Bono just shook his head before turning his attention to the window. There was more to come, Edge was sure of it. He drank his coffee, studying the sharp line of Bono’s jaw, the curve of his lower lip, the way his mouth turned downward so rapidly, as though some terrible news had just been uttered in his ear. All that was to be heard was the soft murmurs of the cafe workers, the kitchen already working hard so early in the morning. And there Bono was, silent, with that look on his face.

Edge was of two very different minds, and he didn’t know how to act, so he didn’t. He just sipped his coffee and wondered what the reaction would be if he were to say, _I can take care of myself so don’t even start_. Or if he were to go further still and really make their little breakfast extra memorable.

Rarely did he resort to name-calling, but the word _hypocrite_ kept coming to mind. And rarely did he think to forget, but with the static dissipating it was all he could do. There were so many thoughts, so many things to consider, and it was tempting to throw it all out there and see what might stick. Of course, it was hard to guess what Bono might say (though Edge had an idea, here and there, depending on the chosen words, or the varied actions) but Edge sure as hell knew what look he might receive, in anger or . . . whatever. Of _course_ it would be a steely blue, the sort that cut right on through him, so sharp that Edge would be tempted to look away. But he wouldn’t. He never could.

They were served ham and eggs as the world outside turned into colour, and while Edge wasn’t hungry he figured it best to make an effort. So back and forth he pushed at his eggs, though the toast he ate with the lightest scraping of butter. It was always a strange experience, eating while being watched, and Edge glanced up only when he couldn’t take it a moment longer. He was surprised at what he found. It wasn’t often he couldn’t read Bono, and it had been a long time since Edge had seen such a foreign expression gracing his face. It was alarming, and then it was gone, replaced with something softer—a look that was pure Bono, one that Edge tried to ignore. He could only try.

Bono fiddled with his watch. He ran a hand through his hair. He shook his head, glancing here and there around the empty cafe before finally saying, “Edge,” with a weary smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Talk to me.”

Edge was sighing before he could stop himself. “About what?”

He glanced up just in time to see the jaw clench, and when Bono muttered to himself, “About what,” Edge expected more to follow. He expected fireworks. He had seen so much of it recently.

Sometimes, on the type of days that lasted forever, that bled into one another until there was no escape, Bono was like a caged animal stalking the studio, creating so much noise that eventually he had to implode, but not before finding a corner to burrow on into. There, he could recharge, regroup, and believe that he still had some semblance of control. That everything was going well, going fine—the band, the album, life in general. All fine. All in control, the way Bono needed. Without it, he was like a soldier returned from war. Pretending until he just had to snap. Edge could see it coming for days.

Sometimes there was just so much noise. Now, though, it was only silence that came though. And it was strange how the quiet he often relished left him disappointed this time around. He couldn’t begin to imagine why, and he couldn’t think of a single way to break the silence. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. “Eat your food.” Bono nodded his head towards Edge’s plate. “You don’t want cold eggs.”

He didn’t want eggs, period. But the longer Bono looked at him, the worse he felt until he figured it was best just to keep the peace. When he picked up the fork his hand shook. The two of them watched until the fork came clattering back against the plate, and when Bono met his gaze it was tempting to look away. But he didn’t.

He rarely could.

In the taxi the world passed by them in a blur, streaks of greys and reds and blues that refused to take shape. Looking out of the window left him lost. Looking to his right left him dizzy, and when Bono smiled at him the blue of his eyes turned from dull to bright. “You seem tense, Edge.”

It was the sort of understatement that deserved awards. Biggest of the year, most obvious. Rolling his eyes had never gotten Edge anywhere, but sometimes it still seemed worth the effort. Maybe this time he might finally come out in front. “I’m alright.”

Bono wasn’t convinced. “You look like you could sleep for a year.”

A year? A year was nothing. Try two. _Try looking in a mirror, B_. Pot, meet kettle. Edge turned to stare at the back of the driver’s head. “No, I just—” He shook his head. “A couple of hours, perhaps. And a shower, I think. Then I’ll be fine. Seriously.”

“Edge—”

“We’re not going to get anywhere with this album if we don’t commit, Bono.”

“You don’t think I’m committed?”

“Did I say that?”

“Do you even listen to yourself sometimes?”

“I do,” Edge snapped. “Do _you_?”

Bono didn’t have a response. He just slumped back in his seat, arms tucked tightly against his chest. A storm was brewing on his face, and all Edge could do was wait.

The silence stretched on, tense at first, and then agonizing. He looked to his left, watching the world streaking by. It would have been easier if Bono had simply lashed out, used his words, those biting words that had the ability to cut right on through before soon being forgotten.

Silence had a way of drawing out the hurt and making it last. Silence was suffocating, a pillow pressed tightly against his face, and struggling only made it worse. He couldn’t get away from it, he couldn’t just let it go.

Why couldn’t Bono have yelled or swore or called him every name under the sun? It would have been preferable. Silence often brought forth the guilt and made it obvious, made it impossible to ignore. Though it seemed silly to feel guilty, really, over such a little tiff. They had said worse before. They’d said things a million times worse, and lived to see the next day with an awkward smile on their face and an apology to stutter out.

But when Edge glanced to his right he found Bono huddled up in a small ball, looking as vulnerable as he had a few hours before. He had kicked a chair. He had screamed. Used his voice, abused his voice, and collapsed inwardly with that look on his face. The same one he was stricken with now. He had rarely looked so lost. At least in the studio he had a worthy reason to look that way. Now, though, Edge was partly to blame. “Sorry.”

Bono turned his head sharply, a frown gracing his features. “Sorry?” he repeated. “What are you sorry for?”

Was it a trap? It was hard to be sure. His face had worn thunder so well only a few minutes before. It could have been bait. But Bono did appear to be genuinely confused.

“Well. . .” Edge shook his head. It just wasn’t worth getting into. “Look, I just think it’s best I get back to the studio as soon as I can. You know, when it’s fresh in my mind.”

“When what is?”

“The melody.”

“You on to something?”

“Almost.” It came out quieter than he had meant it to, and Bono’s expression didn’t change. “Almost.” This time Edge nearly believed it.

“You’ve been at it for days though.” Bono reached over and patted Edge’s knee. “A break would do you good.” His hand lingered against Edge’s thigh. There was a smile on his face, one that held some warmth but quickly turned wicked and a little unsettling. He was playing at something. _Was_ it a trap? “You just need something to take the edge off, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

And there it was, the reason for that wicked smile. Bono wanted them to go and get pissed. It wasn’t a trap. He wasn’t angry, or vindictive. He wasn’t close to drifting away. Paranoia never played well with the actual truth.

Edge shook his head, but said, “I’ll think about it,” with a smile that felt almost real. It might have been a lie. It was hard to know yet. Perhaps he _would_ think about it, before saying no. It would easily join all the other thoughts that were so easy to deny, until they weren’t.

Bono’s smile grew. He gave Edge’s thigh one final squeeze before turning towards the window, and the warmth of his hand was missed the second it was gone.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence, a different sort of silence that was close to companionable. It didn’t mean the end. It didn’t mean an unexpected dial tone. Edge had grown so used to cold silences. And in the dark of his bedroom, in the sudden quiet of a studio, in the back of a taxi with his best friend at his right—no matter where he found himself recently without a sound to distract him, it was near impossible to stop those unwelcome thoughts from intruding. All those words that weren’t being said.

The way her smile had curved when he had walked into a room. _I’m so glad you’re here, love._ And the other thoughts, the haunting thoughts that came late at night when he knew little else but fear. _Don’t say a thing, don’t mention it, just breathe in the moment, enjoy the silence and allow yourself to drift away into a world where you can reach out a hand, you can touch . . .  touch, breathe and feel that slide, it’s not your hand, it’s not. Enjoy it, breathe it in and pretend._

 He closed his eyes to find his centre. Drifting was a terrible idea, especially now, but dozing was acceptable. Who could blame him for doing such a necessary thing as dozing? It was important to catch up when he could, a few minutes here, a couple of hours there, and then straight on back into their own little world. Where Edge could turn all of his focus to this one single thing. The melody. The album. The four of them. Four different viewpoints, four different people to imagine saying _I’m tired of it all,_ though those exact words would never be used.

He knew how it was. And when Bono said _try it like I showed you_ , and shouted _again_ and _no_ and _just listen_ (and sometimes it was _to the beat_ that followed, sometimes it was _to me_ , and sometimes it was a statement that just rung through the air and lingered, begging for a new sentence to rid the room of its silence) and later leaned in close with a delicate smile to tell Edge that _it’ll all work out, don’t worry,_ that was when Edge imagined the end in vivid technicolour.

At some point during the most recent blurring of days, Adam had slipped from the studio, leaving a shell-shocked Bono behind. When Larry had followed him out the door, Bono had turned to Edge with that _look_ on his face. Searching for—for what? Edge still wasn’t sure. He’d not had a single comforting thing to say. A part of him might even have seen things from Adam’s point of view. Just a part.

All it took to sideline a car was one faulty part. Though it usually wasn’t enough to write off the car completely.

“They’ll be back,” Bono had said after, maybe a few hours later, maybe more, and he had sounded so confident that Edge almost believed him. “It’ll all work out, Edge, don’t worry. The band has survived worse, you know. It has.” With his gaze fixed firmly towards the door, he’d chewed on his thumbnail, rubbed at his thigh, and quietly repeated, “It has.” Edge hadn’t had a response. He’d just went back to his sound.

It was all he could do.

“Edge.” That hand found his thigh once more, shaking him gently. “Sorry. But we’re here. Come on.”

While in Berlin Bono had chosen to rent a beautiful house built at the turn of the century. Apparently, it was just easier for when Ali came to visit. “Besides,” Bono had said with a lopsided grin, “Jordan has the rest of her life to discover hotels. For now, I just want her to experience a home.”

“A home is made by the people who live in the house,” Edge had countered, “not just because the house is labelled as such.”

Bono had turned bitter fast. His face, his laugh—that laugh of his. _Bitter_. “Don’t I fucking know it. Your point?”

It had been a struggle to find the most delicate way to word what had sprung to Edge’s mind. “Aren’t you worried that Jordan is going to get used to her ‘home’ consisting of just her and Ali? Even when they come visiting, it will just be a visit, you know? I mean, she’s only a baby. She doesn’t—”

“Do you think I _want_ to leave them now? It’s not easy, you know.”

“. . . I know.”

It was a grand house that Bono had chosen, one that had high ceilings and a sense of history behind it, the bedroom adorned with royal blue carpeting and cream-yellow wallpaper that brought forth a feeling of Zen whenever Edge spared a look its way. He’d decided against a house. It had been offered to him, but Edge had gone for the tried and true experience of a basic hotel room. He hadn’t expected enough visitors to justify the extravagance of a house.

Not that the hotel could really be called basic. It was a lovely building with lovely employees, but it was and never would be as beautiful as the house Bono was staying at. Edge figured Bono would be quick to return home to that bedroom with its calming wallpaper and the carpet that brought out his eyes, but to his surprise Bono followed him out of the taxi. “Oh, you’re coming up?”

Bono offered a simple smile in response, before starting for the lobby, no doubt knowing that Edge would follow. It’s what he always did, after all.

There were few people around, as was usual for that time of morning. It seemed all Edge did was come and go at ridiculous hours. He raised a hand when the receptionist smiled their way before blurring back out of existence, caught himself on Bono’s shoulder upon stumbling, and slumped against the mirror as soon as the elevator doors closed behind them. The glass was cool against his forehead. Dimly, he heard Bono chuckle. “What am I going to do with you, Edge.”

“You’ll figure something out.”

“Oh, will I now?”

“You always do.”

“Not always, Edge.” On its return, Bono’s chuckle sounded darker. There was that wickedness once more, and Edge was back to wondering if he was up to something. But it didn’t seem likely, really.

Not when they were simply riding an elevator, heading up to a hotel room that boasted grey carpets and off-white walls, the couch light, the bedspread dark. The only smattering of colour that could be found in the room was above the bed in a painting that raised more questions than Edge had time to deal with currently. Admittedly he didn’t know much about art, but he’d seen many finger paintings over the years, being a father. He’d never thought to hang one such painting in a hotel room.

Nothing interesting ever happened in a grey hotel room. Not in his experience anyway.

“Am I going to have to wrangle you out of this elevator?”

“What?” Edge pulled back just in time to see the doors open. “Oh.”

Bono held out a hand. “After you.”

Their shoulders bumped as they made their way down the dull hallway. A door slammed in the distance. Faintly Edge could hear voices, and what almost sounded like crying. Almost. He was starting to fade, starting to feel the ache in his joints. The clap of Bono’s palm against his shoulder brought him back to alertness. “Someone’s getting lucky,” Bono crowed.

“She sounds upset about it.”

“It takes all kinds, the Edge.” As they came to a stop in front of his room, Bono turned and gave Edge a searching look. “My question is why are you staying in a place with such thin walls?”

“I barely hear anything.” Edge pulled his wallet from his pocket. His hand was shaking again. He still wasn’t sure why, and he’d been depleted completely of the ability to worry about such frivolous things. No, all he could do was watch his hand shake with the same kind of eye a scientist has while watching their specimen react to new surroundings ( _It’s shaking! Is it adrenaline? Is it something more? Let’s wait and see what happens next!_ ).

He jumped when Bono’s hand grabbed his, and for a moment the tremor subdued. For one single moment. And then Bono was slipping the wallet from his hand, and it all started back up again. The tremor, and the thoughts that just would not leave him. If he breathed in deep and tried to school himself, Edge knew he would be met with faded cologne—was it Dior? Calvin Klein?—and the stale scent of too many days without sunlight.

“I have three bedrooms gathering dust, you know,” Bono reminded Edge, his voice somewhat distant as he frowned down at the contents of the wallet. For a moment Edge was unsure of why Bono looked so confused. It passed, but still. One moment was too long when he was meant to be the bright spark of the band, and yet here they were together, lost because of a single key card. How often had they found themselves in such a moment? Honestly, what a pair they made.

What a fucking pair they made.

Edge muttered, “It’s behind my license,” as he pinched the bridge of his nose. There was a sensation growing, one that wasn’t entirely welcome.

“I would have found it eventually.” Bono slipped the key card into the lock and turned the handle, a _Voila!_ looking to be on the tip of his tongue as he held the door open for Edge. It was never realized, however. Somehow, Bono managed to remain silent until well after the door had click shut behind them. “It could be fun. I mean, I’m not as annoying as I was last time we lived together. I promise.”

Edge let out a choked little laugh that sounded far from human to his ears, and to Bono’s as well, going from his expression. “I wouldn’t want to impose, B.”

Bono shook his head as he gently set Edge’s wallet and key card down on the counter. “You never could.” He kept two fingers pressed against the leather of the wallet, looking as though he was mulling something over. Who could know what was going on inside of that brain of his? Sometimes Edge had a fair idea, but not today. He kept his gaze on Bono’s fingers for those few seconds, glancing up only when they slipped away.

The stare he found fixed on him was warm enough to melt ice. “I miss you,” Bono said.

Try as he might, Edge had never enough fingers and toes to count all the strange statements Bono let loose each and every day. And in the grand scheme of things, _I miss you_ wasn’t really that odd. But in their current state of being, it was positively baffling. “How? We spend, like, ninety percent of our time together at the studio.”

Bono’s smile slowly faded, and with it went most of the warmth in the room. His gaze flickered back and forth across Edge’s face, his lower lip briefly dragged inward, and then he started forward in timid steps that turned slowly confident, stopping only when he was close enough to raise a hand and press his palm against Edge’s chest. It stayed there, long enough for the heat of his skin to seep through, to raise Edge’s heartbeat and make him again wonder—just what was going through that frenetic mind? Bono’s expression offered no useful answer. His eyes, though, red-rimmed and bloodshot as they were, gave Edge reason enough to worry. “What’s wrong?”

Bono’s head jerked slightly, barely enough to even notice, but it was all Edge could focus on. The question had thrown him. “Wrong?” The laughter seemed to bubble out from his throat, even as the lines between his eyebrows deepened. His hand slid from Edge’s chest, and he hesitated before saying, “There’s—I just want you to think about it, is all.”

“About what?”

Bono paused. “Staying with me.”

“I like it here.”

“You do, huh?” Bono threw a pointed glance around the room before looking back to Edge, eyebrow raised, smirk on his face, looking as though he’d just won a fight that wasn’t even in the cards. “Alright,” he said, and that was that, apparently. His voice had turned back to normal, but Edge had learned long ago to look past all the bullshit if he truly wanted the answer, or the problem, or the reason why Bono did and said what he did. He had learned early on to conceal, whether it be as a means of coping or protecting himself, and he likely thought he had done a bang-up job all this time of masking the pain, but it was still all there in his eyes. They turned royal blue like his carpet when he was upset, like ice when he was prickly, brighter and lighter when he was happy.

Edge looked to Bono now and saw a darker blue, one that he couldn’t quite recognize, but told him that things weren’t normal, and nothing more. And that was troubling to Edge, though he didn’t know why.

 He’d been dragged from the studio with the importance of sleep being dangled above his head, but now Bono looked as though he had other ideas. That lingering smirk was rarely worn by someone seeking out the land of Nod.

Edge thought best not to ask. But before he could come up with an excuse to slip away, Bono was inching closer. “Do you want a smoke?”

The question was too innocent for the look on Bono’s face, but it was enough to give Edge pause. “No, I think I’ll, uh, I’m gonna grab a shower.”

“Come on.” Bono gave him a wink. “Just a quick one.”

“Bono, I’m tired.”

“I know you are.” Slowly, the smirk dissolved into something softer and sweeter—and it was a smile that Edge had rarely been able to say no to, one that he knew so well, in real life and otherwise. “I know just what you need,” he said, sounding so sure of himself that Edge believed him. He had to, really. What choice did he have? How long had he been drifting? Months? Years? He needed a lifeline. He needed something.  And no, he wasn’t desperate, because he didn’t do desperate, nor did he do denial in its most brutal form, he was just—

Empty wasn’t the word. Edge couldn’t think of the word he was thinking of. He could barely think at all. And there was Bono, inching closer still, that smile on his face even as the spark distanced itself from his eyes. He’d kicked a chair across the room earlier. He was another one who didn’t do desperate. What a fucking pair they were. Was it really a lifeline if the person on the other side was close to sinking?

“Edge.” Bono shook his head. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not,” Edge protested. But when Bono gave him a _look_ , knowing him, knowing how he was, Edge couldn’t quite keep the sheepish smile from his face. He was. Of course he was. It was only a fucking cigarette. “Fine. Just a quick one.”

“Just a quick one,” Bono echoed. “I wouldn’t dream of anything more.”

With the balcony door opened, Edge found himself feeling a bit more human. The breeze was cool, lightly fluttering the curtains, but the sun brought a bit of warmth to his face. Still, he couldn’t rid himself of the strain at his shoulders, nor the pinch behind his eyelids, and as he listened to Bono stalking around the room behind him, the familiar agitation that he knew too well—a side-effect of too many sleepless nights—started to manifest into a different beast altogether.

He knew the sounds of Bono going through his things, and they were coming through as clear as a bell. It never came with any shame on Bono’s part—no, Edge’s things were his and vice versa, if Edge ever found himself curious or needful (though it wasn’t about that, really, try as he might to explain such things to Bono. Personal space. Respecting boundaries. Such things were completely lost on some). What he was looking for, though, was a question for the ages. In Bono’s back pocket was a packet of cigarettes, Edge was certain of it—he’d looked. Noticed. Over the course of however long they’d been in the studio, he’d managed to drag himself away from his guitar long enough to take in that little tidbit. “What are you _doing_?”

He blinked once and found Bono had materialized at his side as if summoned, holding two cigarettes in one hand, Edge’s lighter in the other, wearing the look of someone who thought they deserved praise.

Edge had to bite his tongue to keep from letting loose. Tiredness often led to bitchiness, and fighting required energy. The quicker he could get to his bed, the better. Just a few short hours and a shower, and then he would be raring to go. Ready for anything. Writing songs, bickering, fighting, finding his most soothing voice to use as Bono licked his wounds and refused to listen to reason. That was if Larry and Adam even showed.

They couldn’t be over. His life was quickly falling through his hands like sand. How the hell had they gone from glory to this?

“Edge.”

He took the cigarette that was on offer and placed it between his lips before leaning in to the flame flickering between Bono’s hands. A single drag was all that he needed before instant relief came flooding on through. He had tried to give up smoking. He had tried to do a lot of things, but nothing would stick. There he was, clinging to that cigarette like it was his last hope of survival. One single drag and he could almost see a future again. One where they were happy. One where he could breathe, where he could just breathe.

He leaned back against the glass door and breathed in another drag, eyes closed, letting it all run through him. To think, he’d said no initially. What an idiot he was. He could never say no, not to this.

The slight shift of the door he was leaning on alerted Edge to Bono’s presence. He opened his eyes to a small smile, nothing more. Bono didn’t speak, and this time the silence was as close to a blessing as Edge had ever known.

They stood there together, smoking their cigarettes quietly, looking out at the grey clouds that threatened to take away the sun. The sounds of a city starting to bustle floated up towards them.

There was life happening down there, but it could only hold Edge’s attention for so long. At his side Bono was moving, constantly shifting his stance and the hold of his arm, and Edge was barely halfway through his smoke before he had to give in and look.

Bono’s attention was elsewhere, far away into the distance, his expression blank despite the twitchiness that had overcome his body. A remnant of the studio, perhaps. But in the studio he had been a caged animal; looking at him now, all Edge could see was a flighty bird, one who was tempted to spread its wings and disappear.

 He had kicked a chair and screamed only a few hours before, why wouldn’t he want to fly away?

Edge couldn’t help but watch him, and it wasn’t just from concern. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. There was just something about the way Bono was when he was free of it all, free of the need to put on an act. There were faint lines around his eyes that had appeared only recently. The skin of his wrist had never looked so delicate. And when he did snap out of it and turn to look right back at Edge, the smile on his face didn’t quite seem real.

It was too late to pretend as though he hadn’t been looking. And why bother turning away when Edge had already been caught out? He tried for a grin and failed, bringing the cigarette to his lips only as an afterthought, only when that fake smile of Bono’s had faded. There was no reason to feel embarrassed. He was allowed to watch his best friend. He was allowed to take it all in and say _I’m worried about you_ and _what should we do?_ and _how do we fix this? How do we start?_

He was allowed to stand there and hope that Bono would respond with _it doesn’t matter, just breathe. Allow yourself that one simple thing, Edge, breathe it all in, enjoy the silence and allow yourself to drift away . . ._

And he was allowed to pretend as though that entire conversation had just happened, while the two of them had stayed silent and watched the other, wondering who would be the first to turn away.

“What are you thinking, Edge?”

“I don’t know,” Edge replied, and it was the truth. He had no fucking clue.

“You don’t know.” Bono’s lip quirked, his gaze leaving Edge’s face briefly to look at the cigarette that was still burning between his fingers. Edge brought it up to his lips as a reflex, drawing in a drag that he knew was his last. There was still half a cigarette left, but he was done with it. One final drag and then it was to be stubbed out and forgotten. And maybe he would just walk away from Bono, go and have a shower, work out the tension in his shoulders, the aches that he was feeling all over, and then hide away for a few hours and come back renewed.

A new man, ready for anything, one that was not weighed down by the silence from her, or the haunting thoughts that just would not leave him, no matter how hard he tried. And he did try. He had tried and tried, but it was so hard when he was met with constant reminders.

One final drag, and Bono was reaching out to take the cigarette from between his fingers before the smoke had finished leaving his lungs. It was a move so unexpected that Edge didn’t know how to react. So he didn’t.

He just stood there, confused, staring as Bono stepped out onto the balcony and butted out both of their cigarettes. There was that look on his face again. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was something, something that Edge just didn’t know, but he was starting to get an idea. But he still couldn’t allow it to formulate in his mind completely, not even when his stomach started to turn—in horror? anticipation?—or his breath caught in his throat. He just stood there, staring as Bono stepped back inside and took his arm, pulling him away from the glass door so that he could close them in from the world outside.

There was no escape now. They were trapped together, caught in their cages, and Bono wasn’t looking at him now. He couldn’t. He must have known how exposed he could be.

He must have known what Edge knew. It was always in his eyes, always.

All over Bono was wearing determination so well, as he kept his gaze lowered to the floor, no, higher than the floor, higher than Edge’s knees even, he was looking right where he needed to look.

In an instant Bono had pushed him back up against the glass door, and he wasn’t gentle, nor was he sorry for it, for anything.

Instinct forced Edge to lash out, to try and shove back. _Nobody, not even him, gets to push me and get away with it._ But his hand was snatched out of the air before it could make contact, Bono’s fingers digging into his wrist briefly before fading away to the lightest of touches.

It was then that he glanced up, their gazes meeting, forcing Edge to know, _truly_ know, exactly what was happening. What was about to happen. _Just breathe. Breathe it all in, and allow yourself to drift away . . ._

He tried to, but his breath still was catching in his throat. He didn’t know, he just didn’t know. . .

“Don’t—” he choked out when Bono’s fingers found his zipper, and he nearly turned away from the startled look he received. But he couldn’t. He was already starting to get hard. How could he look away now? There was no way, no way . . .

Bono’s fingers stayed where they were while he watched Edge closely, waiting for a change of expression, a denial, a muttered word, anything that would tell him to stop. Stop and back away. He would. Edge knew that he would, if any semblance of _no_ appeared. Edge could barely breathe; how could he say no? _Would_ he say no? He’d wanted this, he’d wanted this.

He had this.

Bono moved into action slowly, his fingers drifting against Edge’s zipper, pushing away denim and then cotton before gently pressing him back against the door. The glass was cool against Edge’s bare skin, but Bono wasn’t. His palm was warm, no, hot, too-hot against Edge’s cock, and he kept his gaze on Edge’s face the entire time, searching for a change, any change, _yes_ or _no_ , _go_ or _stop_. They shouldn’t. Jesus, they shouldn’t.

It was a _yes_. It had always been a _yes_.

“Bono . . .”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Bono said soothingly. His hand was still moving against Edge’s cock, finding a rhythm and keeping it. “I want to help you, alright? S’alright, Edge.”

It was hard not to believe him. It was impossible to even think about pushing him away.

Edge nodded. He might even have smiled. And it was relief that he felt, relief that he needed, yet every time he tried to focus—on Bono’s hand, his face, the curve of his lower lip on a mouth that wasn’t smiling, that wasn’t even close to smiling—his mind fractured, his eyes blurred and the world just faded. In and out, in and out, up and back Bono’s hand went, as the pressure started to build and build.

Edge knew he was gasping, yet it was a sound that was coming to him from another room. His arse was sliding against the glass, six levels up, where anyone could have seen them if they had the foresight to look. He could see the balcony railing out the corner of his eye.

She would know. Somehow, she would find out.

It was too late. He was too close now. It was building. He could hear the static, feel it in his nerves, up and down his body without an end in sight. How long had he been drifting? Too long. Too fucking long. He reached out for a lifeline, gripping Bono’s shoulder at first and then the back of his neck, dimly aware of how hard his fingers were digging in to slick skin but knowing well enough to know that he couldn’t stop. Six levels up, where anyone could see them, Bono leaned in closer and pressed his mouth against Edge’s neck, and that was all it took.

It was like drowning.

The static was slow to leave him, but it did. And as it did Edge allowed himself to be moved about like a ragdoll, and his head to be stroked like he was a pet. In his ear he heard the words _I’ve got you, it’s alright_ , and it was nice, it was everything he had needed to hear for so long, yet all he could focus on when he came to fully was the memory of Bono’s mouth against his skin.

That was how it started.

 


	2. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this happened. And it's an angst-fest and I wanted to cry throughout most of it and hurt myself, so I am sorry, but I love the dark pain too much to hold back. I also love to abuse italics, because it's just so much fun. And now that this is posted and out of my mind, I can finally read some other peoples fics (here's looking at you, The White Room) and also write some Nexus, YAS. love you all

Edge had imagined such a situation playing out at least a hundred times, yet he had never before considered that relief would follow in such an overwhelming way. He hadn’t been crazy. There was something between them. He hadn’t been crazy.

All this time, he had forced himself to just push it away. _Stop, don’t consider it. He doesn’t want you. Why would he want you? And even if he did want you, it just wouldn’t be possible_. They were married. They had families. They had the band. How could he even think to risk any of that by giving in and pursuing something that could potentially leave them both burned?

It was different at night. Alone with his thoughts, thoughts that drifted even when he was desperate to keep them focused elsewhere. _Stop thinking. Just stop thinking and breathe in the moment, enjoy the silence and drift away. Stay with me. Is this what you want? Is this how you want me? Edge . . . Edge . . ._

Bono wanted it. Bono wanted _him_. He had to. Why else would he have done it? His hand, his mouth against Edge’s skin, _it’s alright, it’s alright_.

“It’s alright,” he had insisted that morning when it had become clear that Edge needed all the help he could get to pull himself back together. Unsteady fingers had pulled up Edge’s pants and zipped his fly and touched his cheek gently, turning his face until they were eye to eye and he couldn’t look away. He could remember the static. He could feel it still. See the way Bono had smiled at him, so patient and gentle in the aftermath, an absolute dream realized. There was something there between them. There had to be. Even when doubt came crawling back into the forefront of Edge’s mind, he knew. That static wasn’t just on his end.

Still, he had expected Bono to just leave. Walk out of his life for a few hours, find a reason to regret it all, and come back with denial on the tip of his tongue, happy to pretend as though nothing important had happened between them. _It was nothing,_ he would say. _Don’t overthink it. In fact, don’t think about it at all, Edge. I’m not._ But he hadn’t left. It was Bono that had taken the lead, pulling Edge into the bedroom and onto the bed, where he had stayed stretched out for so long that Edge had been close to imagining a future between them. He had been slipping. He had been a moment away from falling to pieces.

As he had watched Bono settle next to him, Edge had tried to find the guilt that had been present only minutes before. He had tried to imagine her face, to picture how she would react. Would that be it? Would it bring the end? Or was the end already here, and they were both just too scared to admit it? They had once held so much love between them, but now it seemed to Edge like they were just biding time. Where had they gone so _wrong_? Where was the regret?

He had tried to formulate in his mind the expression that would grace her face, the pain, the anger, anything to make him want to say no. _Stop it. We can’t_. But it hadn’t been her face that he had seen.

“What about Ali?” Edge had asked because it was the right thing to do. But if he thought about it too much—and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t—he was sure that, eventually, it would tear him in two.

 “Don’t worry about it,” Bono had said with a tired smile that hadn’t reached his eyes. “I’m worried about _you_.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I should. I should. I am. I can’t help it, Edge.”

“What are we—how long—”

“Don’t overthink it. Just relax. Go to sleep.”

It had been the reason for them leaving the studio in the first place. Sleep was needed. Sleep was a reset, a way to leave a bad decision behind, if only for a while. But Edge hadn’t been able to sleep. His mind had raced.

“Bono . . .”

“It’s alright,” Bono had insisted. And when he reached out a hand, Edge hadn’t let go. They had stayed like that until Bono had slowly drifted into an uneasy sleep, shifting and sighing with his eyes darting behind closed lids, stretched out next to Edge like he belonged there. And maybe he did.

Maybe they had been fools to deny themselves of this for so long. Maybe they had made a mistake. It had to be a mistake. It had to. They were married. They were nothing but idiots, stumbling from one mistake to another in life, destined to drag the band down with them, destroy the lives they had crafted, and break themselves in the process. What would Bono be without Ali? They had been together for so long. Could he navigate life without her by his side?

Edge had seen Bono in the aftermath of a fight. He knew how effortlessly Bono could self-destruct. A bottle of whiskey and a night of bad choices. Chasing the moonlight across the long stretch of sand and straight on into the surf. _Come with me_. _Edge, we have to swim, we have to_. A bottle of whiskey lost in the water. _Why_? Edge had asked. _What are we doing?_

 _Stop thinking_ , Bono had replied. Knee-deep in the water, staggering through the waves, fading away beneath the moonlight. _How else will we know if we’re truly alive?_

Edge had spent so much of his life pretending as though he wasn’t worried. But sometimes, it was all he could do. He had glanced up from his guitar to see Bono risking his life so many times when they were younger, and forced himself to just keep playing. He had plastered on a fake smile until he couldn’t anymore, until he was close to begging. “Stop doing it. Please. What if you fall, huh? What will we do then?”

“I won’t fall.”

“You don’t know that. How can you be so certain? It’s not worth it, B, it’s just not. Enough. Please.”

He hadn’t been able to say what he was really thinking _. It scares me. I can’t stand to see you risk your life again. I can’t stand to imagine you gone._ And it wasn’t _we_ that he had been thinking about, really. It was _me_ , it was always _me_. _What will_ I _do then, if you fall_?

Worrying about everyone else but himself was like breathing to Bono. He was a complete natural at ignoring the problems lingering beneath his own surface until the implosion came in the most impressive and terrifying way. He had kicked a chair clear across the room. He had yelled himself hoarse. He had risked his well-being time and time again without realizing the consequences, without asking the question: _what will I do if this all goes south_?

There were consequences to consider. There were so many ways in which it could all go south. What would their wives say if they found out? How would they react? How would Bono deal if Ali left him in pieces? He could barely deal with the band collapsing in front of his eyes.

But it was too late to turn back. It had happened. _They_ had happened. It was easy to look at the situation logically and realize a mistake had been made. But Edge had struggled to find any logic that morning, as he watched Bono sleeping at his side. He had wanted this. He could admit it to himself now, away from those dark and lonely nights. He had wanted this. And now he had it.

He didn’t want to let it go.

In the few short hours between Bono leaving his hotel room and the return to the studio, Edge pushed the doubt from his mind and focused on the now. He couldn’t wonder if he truly did have it with Bono. He couldn’t wonder what _it_ really was. He could only think of Bono’s hand against him, coaxing him, his voice in Edge’s ear as he brought him back towards Earth. His thoughts returned to Bono’s mouth against his neck, again and again, drawn back to the front of his mind, playing out like an old home movie.

They didn’t talk about it at the studio. They were constantly caught in a dialogue about the music. It wasn’t a hit, the magic wasn’t there, it was missing something, all good criticisms and more that could form a list long enough to give _Ulysses_ a run for its money. They couldn’t talk about it at the studio. Edge could barely bring himself to meet Bono’s eye. And it wasn’t shame that plagued him.

He knew how quickly he could form an obsession if he allowed himself, to go from _I refuse to think about you_ to _you occupy my entire being._ He could already feel it burning at his fingertips, tugging in his chest, synchronizing with every other breath that he took.

Did Bono know what he had done to Edge? Would he be happy if he did? It wasn’t working in the studio. Edge could admit that to himself now, quite easily. Nothing seemed to be working for them as a band. He couldn’t say it out loud though. Admitting it was just one step closer. At least in the silence they still had a chance. At least Bono had still some semblance of control. It had taken a quick hand and those two words on his lips— _it’s alright, it’s alright_ —but he had regained that control.

Edge had all but forgotten what it felt like to have control of something. Of anything.

He missed it.

They didn’t talk. The next two days passed in a blur, and they didn’t discuss it. At one point Edge looked up to find Bono watching him, a cigarette between his fingers and a thought on the tip of his tongue. He almost said it, whatever it was. He sat forward in his seat, parted his lips and then turned away from Edge with a sigh that was all-too-familiar. Frustration. It was the one word that ruled their lives in Berlin.

They left the studio together a few hours later, long after Adam and Larry had parted. They walked a little whiles down the sidewalk together without knowing where they were going, and then Bono just stopped. He had that same look on his face when Edge turned around, and when he did finally speak it wasn’t worth the wait.

“I think you need a break, Edge.” He had kicked a chair. He had removed himself from the room only a few hours prior, knowing that he was about to blow. He’d had enough common sense this time around. Neither of them were sure how Adam and Larry would react if the words started flying again. But here he was, telling Edge that _he_ needed a break. Here he was, hugging himself tightly against the morning breeze. “A full eight hours. More. Why don’t you go out and, I don’t know, do some sightseeing for a few days and come back—”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

“I’m not suggesting you leave completely. A few days is only a few days.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else, Bono,” Edge repeated in a slow voice that he hoped gave no room for further argument, and he was slightly taken aback at how quickly Bono’s face fell. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that the expression he was looking at was close to anguish. He stepped forward only for Bono to widen the distance between them. “Hey, hey. What is it?”

Bono didn’t answer. He just shook his head and stared at the ground, pulling his jacket tighter still around him. He didn’t step back this time. He didn’t open his arms when Edge hugged him. Not at first anyway. And then he unfurled completely, his fists balling the back of Edge’s shirt, his chin digging in sharply to Edge’s collarbone. They were in public. They could be seen by anyone, but Edge couldn’t find it in himself to care. “What’s wrong?” he asked, causing Bono to huff out a breath that might have been passed off as laughter on any other day. “Bono, come on. What is it? Tell me.”

Bono shook his head. “It’s nothing.” His fingertips had started tracing circles on Edge’s back. His hair smelled stale like the inside of the studio. “There’s nothing—”

“Don’t give me that, alright? I know you.”

When they pulled apart Bono was wearing his TV interview smile. It was far too close to his _fuckoff_ smile for Edge’s liking. It was far too fake for what he thought he deserved. “I’m just—I’m really fucking tired.” And there was the laugh that Edge knew was coming. His hand came up to run through greasy hair, his eyes averted. Did he really think he could pull it all off and have Edge blindly believe? “I don’t know, I can’t fall asleep. And then I keep waking up not knowing where I am. That house is just too big for one person, Edge. There’s just so much silence surrounding me,” he said like it was an explanation for everything. When he did glance back up there was expectation written across his face. Edge wasn’t sure why. His mind was stuck on the memory of Bono fast asleep on the bed next to him.

What would happen if he asked Bono to come back to the hotel with him? Could Edge handle a _no_? Could he handle a _yes_? He couldn’t ask. He wanted to. But the words just would not come. He just stood there, watching Bono watch him until one of them had to turn away.

“I don’t want you to be anywhere else either, Edge,” Bono said quietly. “I need you here. But I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind currently. People need sleep, remember?”

“I remember. Even Superman.”

“Even Superman,” Bono confirmed with the slightest of smiles. The lines on his face refused to soften. “I’m not asking for too much. I know I’m not. We can say _fuck it_ to the idea of a few days and just go for a day. One day, Edge. That’s barely anything. Have a decent sleep. Have a nice bath. Order room service. Turn off that giant brain of yours for twenty-four hours. You’ll feel better for it.” He shrugged. “We’ll all feel better for it.”

It was enough to give Edge pause. He stared at Bono, searching for an explanation, but found nothing but a closed book. “You say that like I’m the problem in this whole equation.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You might not have, but it’s still what I heard.”

“Edge . . .” Bono let out a sigh, shaking his head as he looked down at their feet. There had always been something about his face that reminded Edge of when they had first met, but looking at him now, he found that boy a distant memory. “You’re not. You’re not the problem, alright? It’s not you.” He gave Edge a wry smile. “I need you at the top of your game. I need you to be able to help me, otherwise I just don’t know what’s going to happen. Get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He left Edge standing there on the side of the road.

The ride back to the hotel passed by in what felt like mere seconds. The room service food was subpar, the television not nearly distracting enough. He found himself picking up the phone four times in the space of an hour, prepared to dial but unable to commit to the conversation that had to happen. _It’s not you either_ , he wanted to say, but there had been a reason he’d watched Bono walk away without uttering those words. He just wasn’t sure anymore.

As it turned out, sleep wasn’t on the cards. He tried. God knows he tried. But he couldn’t find it in himself to commit to a task that had been thrust upon him.

In the living room Edge picked up the phone once more and hated himself a little for being such a chickenshit. _Come over_ , he would say if he had the courage. _There is nothing else I want more on this Earth right now than to feel all the ways in which your body can move against mine. Come over and I’ll make you forget. It’s not you, it can’t be you. I don’t know how to blame you for anything and make it stick, so it just can’t be you._

He stayed in the bath until the aches in his body faded to a sensation that was almost manageable, until he was close to dozing, and when Edge finally did climb out of the water he was dead on his feet and able to do little more than dry himself and pull on a pair of pyjama pants and a faded shirt before collapsing back into bed.

It was dark in his room when he woke up. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but then who ever did? Something had woken him up. Something, but he couldn’t be sure what. A noise perhaps? He could almost remember some sort of sound, though maybe it had been in a dream. He was still tired. He was still so fucking tired.

The phone started to ring just as he was rolling over to bury his head back in the sand. Briefly Edge considered ignoring it, but with his family in another country he knew he just couldn’t take that risk. It could be an emergency. It could be terrible news. He dragged himself out from under the covers.

“Did I wake you?” Bono asked before Edge had fully grumbled out his greeting.

It was a question that he wasn’t yet equipped to answer. The fog was still lingering over his brain. “I don’t know,” he said. “Something did.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to see . . .” Bono trailed off, and in the brief silence that followed Edge could hear the sound of traffic coming through the receiver.

“Where are you?”

There was another pause, and then Bono said, “I’m just outside your hotel. Can I come up? I’ve got pizza and far too much alcohol for one person. You know, everything that is required to start a night off right.”

“Come up,” Edge said quickly before ringing off, the silence of his hotel room allowing so many intrusive thoughts to follow. He let Bono’s final words roll through his mind again and again, standing in the dark until he just couldn’t overthink a moment longer. Bono had made plans. Bono wanted to start the night off right. Slowly the anticipation started to build, turning low in Edge’s stomach and beating high in his chest.

 He turned on the lights and went to unlatch the door. They were really doing this. There was no other way that he could think to read the situation. And it wasn’t only evident in Bono’s words, but in everything that he had neglected to say. There were undertones. Bono was a firm believer in bringing layers to all aspects of his life. Read between the lines. Listen to the silence. Don’t take everything at face value. It was advice to live by. _What are my lyrics about?_ Bono would say to those who dared to ask _. Who even knows sometimes. They’re about life. God. The feminine spirit. But I can’t help but wonder why we are all so determined to put definitive labels on all aspects of life. Do things_ really _have to fit into neat little boxes?_

The knock came, and Edge found Bono with his arms full when he opened the door, wearing a look that he recognized only from the other morning. Not quite a smile, but something.

They were really doing this. It was going to happen, and where there should have been guilt Edge instead felt that same dawning relief that had come and gone like clockwork every time he really thought about what had happened between them, and what it meant. Affair had always sounded like such an ugly word to Edge. He wasn’t sure if he could use it. He wasn’t even sure if he could classify it as such. It was what it was, still a complete and utter mystery to him, but certainly something he was desperate to unravel.

They were really doing this.

“A hand would be nice,” Bono said wryly, dipping his chin to draw Edge’s attention back to his cargo. “I’m not sure I could live with dropping _any_ of these things, they’re far too precious to me.”

Edge took the brown paper-bagged liquor before stepping aside to let Bono in. He could deal with a dropped pizza box if it came to that. It would make far less mess than the alcohol. And Edge couldn’t be sure yet, but he had a feeling that they would both need at least one glass of whiskey to make it through.

They made their way into the small kitchen, where Bono set down the box before opening the wrong cupboard in search of glasses. Edge watched him until he found what he was looking for, turning his attention to the bottles in his hands when Bono glanced back his way. His expression must have given away too much, however, because after a few seconds of silence Bono let out a flat, “What.”

“So much for ‘I’ll see you tomorrow’,” Edge said with a shrug.

“What can I say, Edge?” Bono shook his head, and although it seemed like he had more to say, the words just didn’t eventuate. They stared at each other until Bono’s lip quirked. He reached for the whiskey bottle. “Do you have any ice?”

“In the freezer.”

“Really? Is that where they’re keeping it nowadays?”

They ended up in front of the television with the sound turned down low, watching the lips move on the screen and pretending like they had at least some semblance of what was going on. The pizza had gone cold but that was alright—it tasted better that way, Edge had always thought. The ice clinked against Bono’s glass as he drank, two slices in and done for the night. He had long kicked off his shoes, a move that filled Edge with so much confidence about the evening that he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Bono was committed to staying. He’d taken his shoes off and everything. He wasn’t leaving. Not anytime soon, anyway.

The bottle was on the coffee table in front of them, and it was during Bono’s second top up that Edge almost opened his mouth to start babbling. About what, he wasn’t sure. There was just that urge building deep inside, to say something, anything. _It’s not you. What are we doing? What are we waiting for?_

He started to laugh. He stopped when Bono turned to stare, apprehension marring his tired face. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Edge replied, and it was true. There was absolutely nothing amusing about the situation they had found themselves in.

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I’m not. Well, not anymore.”

“Edge . . .” Bono started before shaking his head, thinking better of it. Instead, he reached up and rubbed at his eye.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Bono’s hand dropped. His eyelid had turned red, his eye left watery and bloodshot. “Talk about what?”

“Don’t play stupid, I know why you’re here.”

“Is that so?” Bono pulled a face as he reached for his drink. The ice clinked against his glass for a few agonizing seconds before he brought it to his lips and downed the last of the whiskey in one go. It had to have burned on the way down, yet Bono barely reacted. The glass was set back down on the coffee table, and when he turned back to face Edge there was that look in his eye that Edge had been waiting to see. “Do you really want to talk right now?”

Edge didn’t. God, it was the last thing that he wanted to do. And he knew that they didn’t need words. The way Bono’s mouth curved would haunt him for days. That smile told Edge everything that he needed to know. He finished his drink and placed down his glass before turning to face Bono once more, the warmth of the whiskey rolling through his body in waves. “No,” he said. It wasn’t just the whiskey that had caught him. He could feel it low in his belly. “I don’t want to talk.” He knew that burning sensation.

Bono’s smile turned wicked fast. He reached out a hand without another word, removing the plate from Edge’s grasp and stacking it on top of his own on the coffee table. The television was turned off, the remote set down next to the whiskey bottle, and then Bono was straddling him, having shifted so swiftly that there hadn’t been enough time for Edge to ready himself. Though he knew, even if Bono had laid his intentions out in full detail before moving, that still there wouldn’t have been any way to prepare for it actually happening.

He was heavier than her. He felt warmer than Edge could ever remember her being, during those times, those nights and days when it had seemed like second nature for them to come together in such a way.

There was a strength to Bono’s body that Edge had never felt against him before. His arms, his chest, those thighs of his. There was no room to move between those thighs, but that look in his eye still dared Edge to try. The smile had slipped from his face. “I’m so relieved that you thought to dress up for me.” They both looked down at Edge’s pyjama pants. “Material like that doesn’t hide a goddamn thing, The Edge.”

He was right. Somehow, Edge felt more exposed in that thin material than he had two days prior. But he was glad for it. He didn’t want to hide. Not anymore. He needed Bono to see, to know, exactly how much he was wanted. It hadn’t quite seemed real until that very moment. Even when Bono had touched him that morning against the balcony door it had still felt almost like a dream. But it wasn’t. That hand was back at his cock, determined fingers rediscovering him through the thin material, and as Edge watched he felt lucid in a way that had been so familiar once upon a time.

How could he be held responsible for his actions when Bono was looking like that? His lower lip disappearing between his teeth, his gaze fixed, eyes too bright, watching his hand shift against that thin material, bunching it back and forth along Edge’s cock. He wouldn’t look up. His touch was forcing spikes of pleasure to tremble up and down Edge’s spine, drawing a stuttered cry out into the open, but he wouldn’t look up. He was focused. Determined.

That look in his eye, the line of his jaw, he wore it all so well. How would his expression change if the tables were turned? Would there be a smile? Or would it be more of the same? Edge had a fair idea of what Bono would sound like while being fucked. He had watched Bono enough on stage, caught up in the middle of a song, to paint a picture of how he might look. He wanted to make Bono sing.

He drew Bono closer with both hands, a small victory that was cut short far too quickly. Bono’s grip was tight against Edge’s wrists as he dragged the hands from his ass, regarding him with a look that should have made Edge feel about two inches tall. It didn’t. It only served to turn him on all the more. And when his hands were pinned against the back of the couch, the only thought that crossed his mind was all the ways in which that move of Bono’s would manifest in his future fantasies.

The expression on Bono’s face said _do you really think you have control here?_ His voice said, “Let me take care of you,” in a tone that was one part soothing, two parts alluring. A tart, onstage and off, wanting to be told no, needing it, begging for it . . .

He tilted his head back when Edge leaned in, exposing his throat. And Edge could lie to himself far too easily, tell himself that Bono meant for it all to play out like that. It wasn’t that he was avoiding the kiss, no, and they would get there, they had to get there, but first . . .

His throat tasted like the cologne he’d used to hide the imperfections of the day. Was it Dior? Calvin Klein? It was constantly changing, yet somehow each and every scent that Bono selected matched him like no other. His stubble was rough against Edge’s tongue, against his lips, and his sharp intake of breath traveled south where it _burned_. He wasn’t pulling away _. He wants this. It’s why he came. He wants_ you. His grip had weakened against Edge’s wrists. And when he swallowed, Edge felt his Adam’s apple bob against his mouth, his tongue.

Would he let Edge now? He wasn’t pulling away. It would only take one breath for them to be kissing. One breath that was trembling, trembling as his hold slipped from Edge’s wrists. He was slipping, slipping—

He shoved Edge back against the couch. The look in his eye wasn’t something that Edge immediately recognized. It wasn’t quite anger. But it was close enough to resurrect some of the doubt that had been left behind.

“Don’t.”

 “I want to—”

“This isn’t about me,” Bono insisted.

“Everything is about you.”

“Says who?”

They stared at each other. No, it wasn’t anger. What was it? Edge almost had it. He could almost put a finger on what he was seeing. It was right there, if he could only just . . .

“I didn’t come here for that, Edge.”

It was denial. It was fear. And yes, it was anger too, but that was dissipating fast. Slipping away to be replaced by something that he had seen only that morning on the side of the road. He had to ask. He had to know.

“Then why did you come?”

Bono didn’t respond. He didn’t even think it over before making his move. He was in Edge’s lap and then he wasn’t, walking away without so much as a single glance behind him. But it wasn’t the front door that he headed towards like Edge half expected him to. It was Edge’s bedroom. The door was left open, the light turned on, a chance still on the horizon. He’d neglected to shut Edge out for a reason. He expected Edge to follow. They were close to dancing.

Edge followed.

There were images that sprung to mind, telling him exactly what he would find when he entered the bedroom. A Bono that was ready for him, or one that wasn’t. One that was prepared to implode. He could scream. He could take it all out on Edge. He could stretch out on the bed and tell Edge just how much he wanted it. _Come here, come here, I need you now . . ._

Nothing of the sort eventuated. In the bedroom he found Bono sitting on the edge of the bed by the pillow that had smelled like him in the aftermath of that morning, worrying the delicate skin by his thumbnail with his teeth. An unconscious habit. An anxious habit. There on the bed was that lost boy they had left behind more than a decade before. And when he glanced up, that look on his face took a beat too long to flit away and turn into a smile. His hand dropped to his lap. “Come here,” he said quietly.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” The smile faltered only slightly as he stood up. He beckoned Edge with a crooked finger. “Come here.”

What choice did Edge have? He couldn’t resist. Not when they had started off so well. Not when he needed to let Bono know.

They met halfway in the space between the bed and the wall. The harsh bedroom lighting highlighted every shadow upon Bono’s face. His smile could only keep Edge from asking for so long. “Bono—”

“Stop. Stop asking, alright? Just stop talking.” It was a gentle touch he used to push Edge back against the wall. His hand lingered against Edge’s chest, the smile on his face finally turning genuine. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured. “I want to take care of you. I want to—”

“Alright.” What else could Edge say? “Okay, B.”

He barely caught the way Bono’s face changed before it was hidden away, buried against Edge’s chest. Had the smile remained? Or had it turned into something darker, something more wicked? His breath was warm through the material of Edge’s shirt, and for a few agonizing seconds his palm just lingered where it was, taking in the heartbeat that was again beginning to pick up its pace. When his hand finally did start to shift south, Edge was almost convinced that he was ready for what was about to happen. He’d had time to prepare. It wasn’t being thrust upon him unexpectedly. There had been two days for him to imagine, to anticipate what might come next. He was ready. No, he was more than ready, he was aching for it.

But when Bono’s fingers gripped the band of his pyjama pants and started to pull down, everything just kind of fell apart.

Of course Edge wasn’t ready for it. How could he ever even think he was prepared for this to happen again? How the hell was he meant to stay calm throughout, when all he wanted to do was everything and anything that he could think of with Bono, and more? He stepped out of his pyjama pants when they hit the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut when Bono’s fingers started to move slowly through his pubic hair. But when that hand finally did close around his cock, Edge had to look. He had to watch. And when he did glance down, it was damn near impossible to look anywhere else.

It was a sight that left him briefly feeling dissociated from it all. A hand on his cock, the harsh breath in his ear, the delayed static that shot through him, nothing matched what he was actually seeing. But then it all came rushing together, and it was too much too soon and he had to look up. There was Bono, pulling away from his chest. There was Bono, frowning as he watched his hand move.

There was Bono with that look on his face. _He’s not okay. How could he be okay?_

Admittedly Edge was not a tall man, yet Bono was so much smaller and had seemed smaller still during those past few weeks, the line of his jaw having become more pronounced, the weight of it all dragging him down, straight down to a place that Edge knew far too well. _You’re gorgeous_ , Edge wanted to say, _even now, especially now, you still shine bright like a star_. He reached out a hand and found Bono trembling, trembling—with what? Anticipation? Desire? Fear? He was that flighty bird again, wearing determination all over, wary of a cage. He would need to be marked _fragile_ before being shipped back to reality.

It didn’t seem right for him to want to take care of Edge. It was meant to be the other way around. It _had_ to be the other way around.

Edge hadn’t been sure what reaction to expect when he had reached out. But he found Bono surprisingly easy to touch this time, allowing a steady hand to find his shoulder at first, and then his neck. A strange little smile appeared on his face, one that was so new it would take weeks to figure out. Yet when Edge again leaned in with a sudden urge that was bordering on desperate, Bono turned his head at the very last moment, presenting his cheek to be kissed instead of his mouth.

It wouldn’t do. It wasn’t going to be like that.

There was a connection that needed to happen, that Edge wanted too badly to give up and in. He had been dreaming of it, thinking of it, fantasizing about kissing Bono, touching Bono, being with Bono for what felt like his entire life. And it was needed now more than ever. For years and years he had denied himself of this, because of her, because of his respect for Ali, and because of him.

Had there been a moment where Bono had looked at Edge with a _yes_ on the tip of his tongue? Perhaps, but he might have ignored it. But now that he had Bono where he needed him to be, Edge wasn’t going to let him just get away. Maybe it wasn’t what Bono thought he wanted, but Edge knew differently. It was hidden in his eyes. It flitted across his face when his guard faltered. Edge had felt it coming for days. It was desperate times, he had to touch, desperate times, a hand on his cock, he had to, he had to . . .

He clung to Bono. One arm wrapped around his back, fisting the soft material of his shirt, pulling him closer and just enjoying it all for that one simple moment, the smell of him, the feel of him.

 _You wear submissive so well_ , that voice had whispered in Edge’s ear, words that could only be imagined in the dark. It hadn’t been real, it couldn’t have been real. _I want to help you_. _That_ had been real. A memory to focus on when there was little else left to distract. He had relinquished control so easily. He had wanted to then. Needed to. He’d needed it then, only then, needed it, needed it—

“Edge.” Bono’s voice was like silk. His eyes matched the colour of his carpet. He had been trembling. His jaw was set—and all Edge could think of saying was _you wear determination so well_ , again and again until one of them had to crack—but his eyes were impossible to look past. “Shh,” Bono whispered in his ear. “I can hear your mind working away. Stop thinking. Concentrate on me, let it all go. On me, Edge. Here.”

Back and forth went Bono’s hand against Edge’s cock, teasing him, dragging him right on down to where he wanted Edge to be. But it wasn’t enough. Not for Edge. He had to touch, to comfort, to find out if it was real. He had to know if this was the reality in which Bono fully gave in.

Edge wanted rough. He wanted gentle. Who could ever know what he wanted, truly? Any moment now, his heart was going to burst through his ribcage, he was sure of it. His lungs were going to burn up and leave him gasping, but gasping for what? It was easy to assume that he would know when he reached that point, yet he still could not decide how to proceed even with Bono so close to him. Edge just knew he had to do _something_ , before his chest exploded.

He had to let Bono know.

He gasped, “Wait,” and the expression that crossed Bono’s face was close to fear. He glanced down at first and then towards the door, uncertainty looming, before finally returning to meet Edge’s gaze. His hand stopped moving.

“Is it—did I—”

“I don’t want to stop,” Edge cut in before Bono could shine a spotlight on each and every insecurity of his that had worked its way towards the front of the crowd. He was always quick to recognize a familiar face, and even quicker to listen. And it was rare for him to walk away from any situation, no matter how difficult or painful, without putting up some sort of fight, but in that moment Bono didn’t appear to have any fight left in him. He just looked confused. It wasn’t a complicated situation, really. All Edge had to do was explain why he had stopped them, and how he wanted them to proceed. But the words just wouldn’t come. Not the right ones, anyway. “I don’t want to stop.”

Bono’s frown deepened, but any question he had died on his lips when Edge raised his hand.

It was a gentle touch he used to smooth Bono’s hair back from his face, to bury his fingers between those oily dark strands, again and again until Bono’s breathing changed from slow to fast, the surprise of it all hitching in his chest.

He had closed his eyes—when? After the first touch? The second?—and leaned into it only after briefly attempting to pull back, his hand cautious and curious as it searched for something to grasp onto. It was Edge’s shirt and then Edge himself that he found, his fingers lightly digging into the stretch of skin just above the jut of a hipbone.

He opened his eyes, and Edge kissed him.

It shouldn’t have come as a shock, yet Bono still seemed caught completely off-guard, pulling his head back as though he’d been burned. His voice was threadbare as he said, “Don’t,” and in the silence that followed he kept searching Edge’s face for an explanation.

 “Why?” It felt to Edge like the air had been sucked from the room. He couldn’t remember the last time doubt had thundered so loudly through his mind and made his ears ache from the suddenness of it all. “I thought—don’t you want to?”

Bono didn’t answer. He just looked away, down to the small space between them, watching his own fingers shift against Edge’s hip. He was drawing circles again. He hadn’t pulled away completely. He hadn’t thought to leave the room.

“Why did you come here tonight?”

It seemed like such a simple question, but Edge knew it was anything but. And for a moment it did look like Bono was going to slip away. Grab the whiskey, forget his shoes and flee the hotel bare-footed, the two of them destined to always remember as they tried so hard to forget. But then came the sigh, the slight head-shake, the resolute turn of his mouth. When Bono glanced up he had that look in his eye. It wasn’t just determination. There was more there. There was so much more. “For this,” he admitted. “Edge . . .”

It was the only thing that Edge needed to hear. On any other day he might have waited, taken a step back and allowed them to talk it through properly, to discuss intent before gently easing in. But Edge just couldn’t bring himself to be that person. Not today. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t think of doing anything else but leaning back in.

 At first Bono didn’t respond, his mouth remaining slack against Edge’s until slowly he started to return the kiss, leaning into it instead of back against the fingers that were tangled in his hair. And then, as was often the case with Bono, slow turned fast in the blink of an eye, the kiss becoming forceful, biting, yet never dominating. It was still Edge’s lead. Edge still had him caught, wrapped up in his arms, a hand at the back of his head, another pulling him closer, keeping them pressed tightly together. Any attempt at struggling would have gotten him nowhere. But Bono didn’t even try. He just gave in.

He tasted like a drink for courage and too many cigarettes. Edge could picture him pacing back and forth just outside of the hotel’s entrance, depleting his pack of smokes as he smiled a reassuring smile at any concerned passer-by. _I’m fine,_ he would say. _Worry about yourself, not me_.

After so many years, Edge could imagine Bono doing practically anything on Earth. And now he was gasping against Edge, clutching at his shoulders, at his arms, his neck, and holding on tight when Edge dragged him that three feet away from the wall to collapse against the bed.

They landed with an _oomph_ , and Bono started to laugh, a sudden burst of giggles that rang louder and higher than usual, though he stopped when Edge sat up to straddle him properly. It took one blink for his expression to turn serious, so serious that it was hard to imagine he had ever been laughing. _He doesn’t laugh like that. He_ never _laughs like that. You know why. Come on, you’re smarter than this._

They stared each other, any hysteria long gone, and eventually Bono turned his head to the side, letting out a sigh that rushed through them both.

Edge had dreamed of this. So many nights had been spent thinking about what he would do if ever he managed to get Bono like this, soft against pale cotton sheets, caught between his thighs, not quite ready for whatever he had in mind but willing to try anyway.

But Bono didn’t seem ready now. Not now that they were parted, no longer chest to chest with no escape. Edge watched his face closely, waiting for a change, and when it came it wasn’t the change he’d hoped for. All it took was a minute shake of the head to bring doubt back into the equation. Bono’s gaze darted to the wall and to the door before landing back on Edge’s face, and his next move should have been easy to anticipate, yet Edge still was surprised when he dragged himself backwards a few inches and tried to sit up.

 The reality of the situation had come through in sudden waves. “Edge,” he blurted out, his expression that of a man determined to continue on in one long spiel, prepared to bare his soul but not too much of it. _We can’t do this_ , he would say. _You know why we can’t. Yes, you do. The other morning? That was different. It was. It_ was _. Because I said so, that’s why._

It didn’t come. All Bono had left in him was silence. His eyes, though, said enough. There was still hope there. There still had to be a chance. What had he said? _I can hear your mind working away_. There was just too much thinking going on. Take that away and what did they have left? _He kissed you back. He stopped thinking and kissed you like he’d been aching for it._

“Hey.” Slowly Edge reached out to touch, pausing midway to watch Bono’s reaction, and when nothing changed he closed the gap completely and buried his fingers once more between those oily dark strands. And they were back, right back to where they had been only minutes before, only this time Bono was ready for it. This time he leaned into it immediately before drawing back, slow enough for Edge to follow him down as he gave in and slumped against the sheets. His fingers gripped Edge’s wrist yet he didn’t try to pull the hand away from his hair. He just followed the movement, back and forth, back and forth. _You wear doubt so well._

“I’m sorry,” Bono said, shaking his head as he choked out a strange little laugh. “I don’t know why . . .”

“It’s alright.”

“Sorry.”

“We can stop.” They could. He would if Bono told him to. He would stop but it would be one of the hardest things he had ever done.

“Why?” Bono dragged Edge’s hand to a halt. “Why should we?”

There were a few different reasons, and a week earlier, a year earlier, even three days earlier, Edge might have laid them all out, one by one. It wasn’t in him to be a good man. Not tonight, anyway. There was only one answer that he needed to hear. “Do you want this?” he asked, and the silence that followed lasted far too long for his liking. “Bono, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Edge.” Bono sighed. “I want this.” His smile was weak. His hand shook against Edge’s. _Stop_ , came the thought. _Don’t do it. Don’t. Back away._ The thought sounded close to pleading, so desperate to be heard that Edge was certain it shouldn’t be ignored. Was he strong enough to just walk away? Not tonight. And not after this. Bono wanted it. Bono wanted _him_. _This is not the way to protect him, and you know it._

“I’ll go slow,” Edge murmured. “I’ll—I’ll make it right.”

Bono just nodded. His gaze stayed on Edge, hyperaware of every move that was being made—the undoing of each button, the drag of a wet mouth—until his breath started to catch in his chest, and his face flushed pink against his cheekbones, but it wasn’t until his clothes were removed and he was fully exposed that Bono finally turned his head to look to the wall. His hand briefly reached out into the space between them before falling back useless against his side, and then he was still, and Edge could sit back and just look at him without any needless distractions.

He had seen Bono naked so many times before, but never like this. It was often imagined, but there was only so much the mind could do without a paintbrush to paint with.

It was pathetic how many times he had imagined it, and he would never admit the exact number if asked, because who could know for sure? It had been more than enough, perhaps it had been too much. He wanted to do everything with Bono. And on those lonely nights, he had. On those lonely nights he had spread his Bono’s legs and kissed him for so long and so deeply that his Bono had known just how wanted he was.

 _Yes_ , his Bono had whispered. _Yes. Tell me again, Edge. Come closer, I want you to know, it’s you, it’s you . . ._

On those lonely nights, his Bono had let him place a pillow beneath his hips, his eyes so warm, so dark with emotion, as he pulled Edge closer and begged him to make it right. His Bono was glad to be fucked. His Bono was glad to be with Edge. It was all in his eyes, the want, the need, and on those lonely nights the desperation that Edge had felt to be needed had made him a very sad man indeed.

This wasn’t one of those nights. He had to stop searching for that look in Bono’s eyes. It wasn’t there. It just wasn’t. There was something else. Yes, there was some want there, there was need, but they were clouded with an emotion that Edge didn’t recognize. He thought that if he kissed Bono like before, something might click. If he kissed Bono hard enough, perhaps it _could_ be like his fantasies.

This wasn’t his Bono, not yet. But it could be.

It was a relief when Bono kissed him back, a hand at his neck, his fingers dancing against Edge’s jaw, one two three one two three. _Were_ they dancing? Or was he trembling still? Was he shaking? Was he really even here, or was he drifting? His eyes told Edge nothing now. He had kicked a chair. He had shouted. His mouth curved into something close to a smile. But when Edge started to touch him, hesitation again seemed to sully the air. “It’s alright,” Edge soothed.

“I know that,” Bono let out. “I know it’s alright. I told you, I told you . . .”

He had. Two days prior, again and again. _I’ve got you, it’s alright._ It was only them now. They were in this together. _Touch me, Edge, stay with me,_ his Bono would say. And Edge would. But now, all he could do was hesitate. He knew he had to stop thinking. She was in another country. They both were.  They wouldn’t know. It was only the two of them, it was only them. _He doesn’t want this._ Stop thinking _. Stop. Stop._

Edge almost did. He almost got up and left the room. This was not protection, it was no way to fix a goddamn thing. The only thing that stopped him was Bono’s hand, reaching out to grip his and drag it back down, forcing Edge’s fingers open until they could close against his cock. For a moment, Bono looked victorious. For a moment, he had control. A different sort of control to what he was used to. Lacking it in the studio caused him to snap. In the studio he could scream and shout, kick a chair clear across the room. In the bedroom he just seemed so goddamn small without it.

But he had control. He had Edge’s hand exactly where he wanted it. For that one small moment, the world was his. And then it was lost once more, back in the hands of a man who did not deserve such a precious thing.

Edge kept his gaze fixed firmly on Bono’s face as he touched him, watching for a change, any type of change, but nothing came. Bono stared right on back, his left hand drifting in the space between them once more, fingers clutching at the air, his lips parted, breath coming out in small bursts. He looked too pale beneath the hotel lighting save for his cheeks, where the pink was slowly blossoming into red.

 This was a man that commanded a stage, that could control a crowd with one simple gesture. This was a man who had never looked small in front of an audience, whose voice could hush thirty-thousand people to silence and then move them to tears, to shouts of joy and wonder. But as Edge looked at him now, all he could see was the cracks that had started to form. _If the world could see him now, what would they think?_

He kissed Bono’s cheek where his pale skin had given way to colour, and didn’t receive a smile. He kept no rhythm while stroking Bono’s cock, because he was too overwhelmed to try. He just wanted to make Bono smile. He just wanted to make him hard, make him desperate, and he was close to succeeding. Bono was becoming slick against Edge’s palm, his breath starting to tremble, and his chin, his chin was trembling too. He didn’t look away. “Edge.” Bono’s palm found Edge’s chest, his fingers clutching against the material of his shirt, though he neither pushed nor pulled. He looked like he could pull Edge closer. “Edge.” He looked like he could push Edge away.

Edge took Bono’s hand in his, pulling it away from his chest, and when he pressed his lips against fingers that had been dancing only a few minutes before, something that was almost a smile broke out on Bono’s face. He had been the one to start it all. He had leaned in and pressed his mouth against Edge’s neck, and he hadn’t left a mark, but it was two days later and Edge could still feel his lips. He wanted this. Why else would he have been the first one to reach out?

“What are you going to do?”

It was a question with an answer that Edge wasn’t yet sure of, so he simply said, “Shhh.” There was so much that he wanted to do, so many ways that he could think to draw it out and make it last, and at the forefront of each scenario was the expression that would appear on Bono’s face. It was almost there now. He was still almost smiling. They were so close. They were so fucking close. He was almost exactly where Edge needed him to be.

He used both hands to grip beneath Bono’s thighs and drag him closer, until his ass was near flush against Edge’s lap, his hips titled. It was a move that Bono hadn’t seen coming, a look of surprise briefly shining through before melting away into something that Edge didn’t expect. And then the hold against his shirt tightened, and he was pulled closer still.

They kissed until the laughter started to bubble out from Bono’s chest once more, breaking through the silence of the room as his fingers tugged against the material.

 It was only when Edge gripped his wrist that he let go, that smile on his face remaining even as his arm was raised above his head. Edge did the same with his other arm, pressing them together against the covers, holding them there with a single hand. He had an idea. He had more than an idea. It was something that he had to make happen, because if it didn’t Edge just wasn’t sure how far he would take it. He knew he was being watched. Every move he made was too important to take even one false step. The look on Bono’s face had changed so quickly. He was leaking against his stomach. His eyes were wide until they weren’t. They slipped shut when Edge’s mouth found his neck. They stayed shut when Edge started to move, slow at first, and then faster, dragging his hips against Bono’s.

It was almost how Edge had imagined it. It was better than he ever could have thought. He wasn’t going to last long. He didn’t have to. They could do this, again and again. They could do everything that Edge could think of. They could do so much before they were found out. Before it all came crashing down. _Stop thinking. Just stop thinking_. He had to.

He had to focus on the now.

Somehow, he managed. Somehow, he was able to force it all from his mind and concentrate on how it felt to finally have Bono beneath him. The feel of their cocks slip-sliding together. Bono’s breath harshing out, _catchingcatchinggasping_ in Edge’s ear. His leg coming up to press against Edge’s ass, urging him in a way that his hands could not. More. Harder. Faster. And that look on his face, the furrowed brow, the gasping mouth, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He looked like he was close to tears. He looked like he had long given in. He wanted this. 

There was only so much that Edge could take. And when it all became too much to bear, it took both of them by surprise, his hips snapping hard, his come streaking against Bono’s stomach. He let go of Bono’s wrists and tried to chase the last of it, one hand gripping their cocks together as he rolled his hips, needing it, needing more, _enoughenoughstop_.

He couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating. _So this is how I die_. A hand on his back, the breath in his ear. It brought him back in pieces, and when he finally did manage to pull away and open his eyes, he found Bono trembling beneath him. No, not trembling, not like he was. It was a need that pulsed through him, his skin flushed and shining with sweat, his eyes dark as he tracked Edge’s every movement. His Bono had never looked quite like that. There was only so much the mind could handle. And Edge had never thought to imagine the aftermath in such detail, what it would be like to see his come against Bono’s skin. It was a sight that left Edge with a feeling that was almost primal, nothing like he had ever experienced before. _Mine_ , the ridiculous part of his brain almost forced him to say. _I’ve marked you now, so you’re mine._

“ _Edge_.”

The desperation in Bono’s voice forced Edge to act. This was what he wanted, after all. To touch Bono, to see him come. He didn’t dare drag his gaze away from Bono’s face as he reached out, watching that expression change again and again as the hand moved against his cock. It didn’t take Bono long to fall to pieces. And when he did he was mostly silent, a moan that turned into a gasp as his hand gripped Edge’s shoulder, his fingers digging in hard. But his face, his face . . .

For that one brief moment Edge understood how people could become addicted so quickly.

Neither of them spoke until well after Bono’s breathing had evened out. There was nothing Edge could think of to say but _can we do that again? Immediately?_ and it might even have been enough to make Bono laugh, though it was meant to be completely serious. The hand on Edge’s arm continued to slowly shift back and forth as the silence lingered, Bono’s gaze firmly fixed to the ceiling, his brow furrowed. “Was that alright?” Edge asked eventually, because he had to know. The hand froze against his arm, the fingers briefly tightening before slipping away completely.

Bono turned his head. For a few seconds he just looked at Edge, pressing his lips together as though he was attempting to keep himself from blurting it all out, and then he slowly nodded. It wasn’t as convincing as Edge had hoped.

“Are you sure?”

The cracks started to show even as Bono nodded again, his lips drawing back against his teeth. And then he was shaking his head and looking back to the ceiling, his laughter turning bitter fast. “I didn’t mean to. . .”

“What?”

His hand came up to rub between his eyebrows. “I didn’t—I told myself I would never do that to her. That I could be strong for her. I never wanted to be that person. Never.” He turned back to look at Edge. “I tried. You have no idea how hard I tried. But I wanted it. I just . . . I can only say _no_ for so long, Edge.”

They ended up in the shower together. It was a type of intimacy that Edge wasn’t sure if they were ready for yet, but it happened nonetheless. They barely touched as the water rained down upon them, washing away the sweat, the evidence of what they had done. There was something that had to be said, Edge knew. There was so much that he needed to say, that Bono had to hear. But when he looked at Bono, any thought that he had just faded away.

There was a glazed look in Bono’s eye that wasn’t just from the whiskey nor their night together. He was close to drifting away. And as Edge watched him standing there near motionless beneath the water beating down against his chest, he found himself thinking of the best way to say it all, everything that he was feeling, without using the words that were running through his mind.

“I think you should wash your hair.”

“It can wait.”

“No, you need to . . .” Edge shook his head. He wasn’t sure how Bono would react to him finishing that thought. Was it worth finding out? Was it worth having his own words thrown back at him, turned around in a way that only Bono could get away with? Although maybe it wouldn’t be anger. The alternative reaction might just be worse. Edge had seen so much of it already; he wasn’t sure if he could bear to see that hurt on Bono’s face again. But the simple act of Bono taking the shampoo bottle from him without protest was enough to push Edge over the line. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

It wasn’t anger that sullied the space between them. It wasn’t anything that Edge had expected to find. Bono just stared at him until the vacant look in his eye slipped away. He merely nodded before uncapping the bottle, and the two of them were silent until after the last of the shampoo had been washed away. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Yes,” Edge replied. _Stay with me,_ his Bono would say. _Stay with me, staystaystay, I need you to . . ._ “Stay as long as you want.”

Out on the balcony they bundled up against the cool night air, the bottle of whiskey between them as they watched the stars emerge and then disappear behind the clouds. It was getting late, and Edge knew that climbing into bed and staying there for a full eight hours, longer, was what they both really needed. Not this. But any protest he had died on his lips when Bono dragged his chair closer.

They were quiet as they drank, only an odd thought being voiced here and there. And as Edge pretended that he wasn’t watching Bono, the worry started to creep in as he took in just how unsteady his pouring hand was becoming. There was guilt there. There was so much guilt that Edge didn’t know where to start. He wasn’t sure if he _could_ make it alright. Was it even worth trying? It was what it was, there was no way to change a damn thing about what they had done.

Out of nowhere, Bono blurted, “I miss you,” and briefly Edge wondered if it was meant for Ali. But when he glanced over he found Bono’s gaze burning into him.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No.” Bono shook his head and reached out an unsteady hand. He was well past the going back stage. “No, I miss you.”

“When? When do you miss me?”

“Four am, four pm.” His laughter quickly turned somber. “I miss how we are on stage together,” he admitted, and it clicked.

“We’ll get there again.”

Bono didn’t respond. He simply nodded, his fingers going lax against Edge’s arm. It seemed like that was the end of it, but then Bono slowly sat up, drifting away from his chair and into Edge’s. He buried his face into Edge’s neck and sighed at the first touch of fingers against his damp hair. “I don’t regret it,” he murmured. “I want to. Edge, I want to. But I can’t. I won’t.”

It was exactly what Edge had hoped he would say.

“I know, B,” he said quietly. “I know.”


End file.
